Flying Life: Scars And Dents
Airplanes are meant to be flown
After five years of renting out our airplane, I have come to expect seeing her slowly slide from the pristine beauty she once was to what she is now: a work horse that gets damaged more quickly than we can repair her. At the end of that trip, I came home worrying about ordering new seat covers and possibly an expensive paint job. I’ll admit I wondered if we should just remove our poor airplane from the flight line before she took any more abuse.
Later that night, I was putting the house to bed—turning off lights, picking up dishes, and putting away toys—when my foot grazed the spot on the wood floor where our son, Matthew, had tried out his toy hammer, leaving a good square foot of lighter-colored pockmarks where there used to be smooth, dark, mahogany stained wood. Seeing those marks made me remember the day the flooring contractor put it in. He had turned down his gospel radio music just enough to hear me. “It’s so beautiful,” I yelled over the noise. “How will I keep it from getting damaged?”
If a home is a place to grow and make mistakes and scratch up the floor as we actively live our lives, then maybe I can learn to view my airplane the same way. “You won’t.” He smiled at me, pointedly looking at my very round belly (I was 38 weeks pregnant at the time). “There’s going to be life in this house. Those floors are going to get scratched. That just means you’re doing it right.”
Now when I see those scratches, thanks to that ridiculously wise floor guy, I will always remember our 2-year-old son, blond curls falling in his face, chubby fingers wrapped around a hammer, as he “worked” alongside his father that Christmas morning when Santa left a new tool set under the tree.
If a home is a place to grow and make mistakes and scratch up the floor as we actively live our lives, then maybe I can learn to view my airplane the same way.
I was fortunate enough to get some tailwheel training recently in a beautifully maintained 1942 Stearman. The instructor was Dr. Morris Ray, a retired neurosurgeon and a recipient of the Wright Brothers’ Master Pilot Award for 50 years of safe flying. During the walkaround, I noticed a spot on the wing where the fabric had been patched and was a slightly darker mustard color than the rest of the airplane’s canary yellow. Doc ran his hand almost reverently over the spot. “Oh, that’s just a little repair. She got away from someone during a landing.” After being around aviation that long, it seems Doc already knows what I still need to learn. Airplanes were never meant to spend their time in a hangar, being kept in pristine condition. They were made to be flown. After my second botched landing, where Doc let me bounce that beautiful Stearman onto the ground instead of telling me to go around, I was grateful that airplanes can also be the avenue where we are allowed to learn from our mistakes, make ourselves better—and, yes, sometimes cause a few dents and scratches.
A part of me wants to keep my airplane shiny and new, but I am also realizing the significance of sharing it with student pilots. While those of us in aviation love our airplanes, at some point we realize that it’s not really about the airplane. It’s about the pilot, whose character is shaped each time he tries again after not getting it right the first time. Those scratches on the airplane help remind us what’s important: learning to value our scars.
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